


Dineheda (or, even the waiter doesn't want to be here)

by AdeleDazeem



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Finn Collins is there for a half second or three, Lexa scares him off, but don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 06:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5857591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdeleDazeem/pseuds/AdeleDazeem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dinner was not going well. Even the waiter could sense that. Every time he neared the table to refill their drinks or check on their food Clarke catches him visibly wincing as if physically assaulted by the awkwardness steeping between the two patrons. She couldn’t exactly say she blamed him though."</p><p>or: </p><p>You're my best friend and roommate but I also want to kiss your face, please tell me this date isn't going as terribly as it seems (spoiler alert: it is)(other spoiler alert: it's gonna be okay).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dineheda (or, even the waiter doesn't want to be here)

**Author's Note:**

> Let's all just imagine Lexa doing the "awkward turtle" during this. Okay? Okay.

Dinner was not going well. Even the waiter could sense that. 

Clarke couldn’t remember what he had said his name was. Something with an ‘F,’ she vaguely recalls. To be honest, she hadn’t exactly been paying attention when he first introduced himself, handing them their high-handed menus; she had bigger fish to fry, namely the breathtaking and frustratingly uncommunicative girl sitting across from her. Whatever his name may have been, every time he neared the table to refill their drinks or check on their food she catches him visibly wincing as if physically assaulted by the awkwardness steeping between the two patrons. 

Clarke couldn’t exactly say she blamed him, though. 

That is not to say she did not however blame Lexa, who, currently sitting opposite her, looked to be teetering along the cusp of spontaneous implosion. She seemed to be mitigating this (increasingly) impending threat by warring between her wallet and wine glass. It was an expensive bottle, Clarke knew (the prices hadn’t been listed, not even by the glass), but Clarke also knew that this was an uncomfortable situation. And when Lexa was confronted with an uncomfortable situation, she remedied it by drinking. Not excessively, mind you. No, excessive (and irresponsible) were not words Lexa even possessed in her vocabulary, let alone knew how to apply to her own life (that was more Clarke’s area of expertise). Regardless, Lexa would occasionally have enough to dull the inevitable anxiety brought on by small talk -- an inane activity neither girl would have associated with their friendship before this evening. 

Yet here they were: barely midway through the meal and Lexa had already asked about her classes and the weather four times. Each. It was safe to say the small talk quotient had been sufficiently satisfied. Consequently, all of the tell tale signs were present in the girl across from her. They had co-hosted enough parties over the past year and a half as roommates for her to know the tense line of her shoulders and neck, the dart of her eyes, desperately looking for something to talk about, to be indicative of the the fact that Lexa was indeed uncomfortable and indeed in need of a drink. 

Hell, even Clarke needed a drink and she was the extroverted one of the two.

They hadn’t said anything to each other for the last fifteen minutes, not since Floppy-Haired Waiter Boy had served them their first course, and Lexa had blanched at the artful, yet pretentious take on steak tartare. The fact that she then had to choose between a myriad of menacingly polished silverware of assorted sizes and shapes with which to eat it, had not helped matters. 

Had it been anyone else, Clarke would have reached across the “romantically lit” table and pointed out the appropriate one (the place fork, of course) for her to use. Granted, if it had been anyone else sitting across from her at this painfully awkward dinner, she would have excused herself to the bathroom at least twenty minutes ago and texted Lexa requesting for an emergency extraction call. 

But this wasn’t anyone else. This was Lexa. This was the girl who had wowed her at freshman orientation with her standoffish attitude, who she had been best friends with since the end of that first semester, had been rooming with since the summer before their junior year, and had idiotically fallen for somewhere along the way. This was the impossibly proud Lexa who never accepted help from anyone, was basically stubbornness personified, and would probably dissolve into a pile of undeserved shame and embarrassment if Clarke were even to indicate she didn’t know which fork to use for which course. 

This was the Lexa who had marched into Clarke’s room last Tuesday morning, her regal poise looking more at home amongst royalty than a still snoozing Clarke, who hadn’t even had a chance to turn off her alarm before the taller girl burst in and asked her to please go to dinner with her. Apparently Drunk Clarke coming onto her a few times at parties wasn’t quite cutting it for Lexa and they needed to try something a bit more official (and probably with less drunkenly aggressive tongue -- though Clarke wasn’t 100% opposed to that method, if she was being honest). True to form, this Lexa had been disturbingly serious during the short, mainly one-sided interaction, which admittedly made the whole thing sound more like a command than an actual request. Granted, that distinction clearly mattered very little if Clarke’s immediate (and emphatic) “YES” had been anything to go by. Even half asleep she had her priorities straight (okay so, apparently those inebriated encounters hadn’t exactly been cutting it for Clarke either, tongue or no tongue, damnit). 

This was also the same Lexa who had slunk off early this evening with the intent of getting Clarke flowers, but mostly so that she could knock on the door of their shared apartment at 7 o’clock sharp like she was picking Clarke up for a legitimate date (not like they were just going out for dinner between friends and/or roommates, a differentiation Lexa had made quite clear). It was Lexa, who currently looked more beautiful than anyone had a right to in a cream-coloured dress Clarke had never seen on her before, who had been so flustered at the sight of Clarke in her own dress she could barely manage not choking on her tongue as she told Clarke how “stunning” she looked. 

And it was Lexa who had taken all of Clarke’s self-control not to immediately pull into their apartment and kiss with all of the emotions she had been keeping to herself for the past two(?) years. Thankfully, Clarke knew that while alcohol-induced tonsil-hockey was one (very, very good) thing, partaking in it stone cold sober was another activity entirely. She also knew that in addition to all of these frustratingly charming and aggravating and winsome ‘versions’ of the same girl, the fact remained that this was still the same careful and calculating Lexa, who 1) maintained her walls better than anyone Clarke had ever come into contact with, and 2) was still skittish of affection after the Costia Debacle of ‘08. (Sometimes Clarke still felt irrational anger towards Lexa’s hoebag of a high school THANKFULLY-EX-girlfriend who broke her heart back in freshman year. But that was nether here nor there.)

No. This was Lexa, Clarke’s best friend who she had fallen for some inordinate amount of time before like some stupid romantic teen comedy and had never believed she had a chance with. The same best friend who completely surprised her only this past week, when she asked her to go on “yes, an actual date date, Clarke, I know you are familiar with the concept.”

So Clarke refrained from kissing her senseless on their doorstep and again refrained from advising her on which of the many intimidating utensils to use and Lexa ate her main course with the salad fork. Because regardless of all of those things, this was still Lexa and Clarke did not want to mess this up.

So here they were: two best friends, roommates, (soulmates maybe even, as Clarke secretly dreamed from time to time when just drunk or tired enough the thought didn’t scare the absolute shit out of her) sitting across from each other like two strangers being held at gunpoint. Clarke watches the other girl reach for her almost empty wine glass again, only to stop herself mid-motion and divert her hand to the water glass. She grimaces at the beverage and it's offensive lack of alcohol, and it is this small gesture that breaks Clarke’s resolve.

”Okay, that’s it,” she says decisively, balling her napkin up and tossing it onto her plate, effectively shattering the stifling tension between them. Lexa looks up, startled at the jostle of metal on china, and looks almost as if she had forgotten Clarke was even there to begin with. Clarke looks wildly around for their waiter, finds him hiding by the wine rack in the corner trying to avoid eye contact with her, and frantically flags him over. 

Lexa finally seems to be back in this plane of existence. She glares at Clarke’s dramatics, immediately shooting a hand out to contain Clarke’s wild movements. Across the room, the waiter stalls in his approach to them, unsure what he is expected to do with the mixed signals coming from their table. He weighs his options for a second and then promptly scuttles back to his hideout, relief apparent on his features even from Clarke’s vantage point across the room.

Meanwhile, Lexa scans the surrounding tables, checking the patrons’ faces for any hint of distaste or scandal, before turning her gaze back on the woman across from her. Her fingers tense on Clarke’s wrist. Her eyes flash dangerously. “Clarke,” her name comes out a hard whisper, composed entirely of harsh, yet hushed clicks. Clarke fights down a shiver -- now was definitely not the time to be getting turned on by Lexa’s commanding antics. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m saving us from the sinking ship that is this date,” Clarke answers as she manages to jerk her hand away. She again gestures at their reluctant waiter(/saviour). When he finally makes eye contact with her his eyes are huge, his long hair lolling as he shakes his head. He clearly wants nothing to do with whatever is going on at their table. Clarke can’t help but groan in complete frustration, both at his lack of understanding, and just also at this whole evening. She mimes signing a check with perhaps a bit more zeal than is strictly necessary. This seems to thankfully be something he is amenable to, and he darts off to hopefully run their bill, not just escape Clarke’s attention. She turns her attention back to a now quietly indignant Lexa.

“I thought you wanted to go on a date,” Lexa responds carefully, voice tight and eyes narrowed in what most would call a death glare. Clarke, however, recognizes it for what it actually is: a mask of confusion and concealed hurt. 

This time, Clarke does not stop herself, and reaches across the table to lay a hand atop Lexa’s where it grips her (still incorrect) fork, not unlike one would grip a weapon. Clarke smoothes her fingers over the back of Lexa’s clenched ones and watches as the other girl’s body unconsciously relaxes into her touch, shoulders loosening minutely, brow unfurrowing ever so slightly. Lexa releases the fork.

Clarke wants to kiss her all over again.

Instead she settles for smiling, and says, “I do,” with more conviction than she has felt about anything recently. Lexa’s shoulders loosen even more at this admission. Her brow however is back to it's usual crinkle of confusion, and Clarke can’t help the chuckle that escapes her at the sheer (usually hidden) adorableness that is Lexa Woods. “I do want to date you,” she repeats, assures, and then digresses, saying almost to herself rather than to Lexa, “Believe me, I’ve been waiting for this situation for what feels like ages, I honestly thought I would die before I ever got this chance.” Lexa’s eyes widen at this confession. Her mouth even drops open, completing the caricature of surprise. Clarke doesn’t let her speak though, instead squeezes her hand and clarifies, “But this isn’t us.” 

Lexa’s mouth snaps shut, her guarded squinting resumes. “What do you mean?”

“Lexa, you know me. And I’m pretty fuckin’ sure I know you. So. I feel pretty confident when I say that so far, none of this night,” here she uses her free hand to gesture (more subtly than before, Lexa is relieved to see) to the restaurant around them and then to the space between them, “is anything like us. At least not the ‘us’ I’ve known and come to love over the past few years.” 

Lexa is saved from responding to Clarke’s statement, because it is at this moment, apropos of nothing but terrible timing, that the waiter decides to rematerialize beside their table, check in hand and looking for all the world like he would rather be serving a giant, rabid gorilla rather than the two girls sitting before him. At his nervous throat clear, Lexa breaks eye contact with Clarke to burn holes into his face. She takes the check-presenter from him and immediately returns it without review, debit card shoved forcefully inside. Her eyes do not leave his face for the entire interaction, and with every second that passes, Clarke can’t decide whether to feel sorry for him or to just straight up laugh. 

“Thank you,” Lexa all but growls at him when he does not immediately scamper away. It sounds more like a threat than an acknowledgement of gratitude, which, Clarke thinks, is probably because it is. 

He retreats, his tail tucked firmly between his legs, and Lexa watches him the whole way. He is so busy maintaining eye contact (no doubt terrified to turn away) that he backs directly into another couple’s table almost knocking over their champagne bucket in the process. At this, Lexa releases the poor boy from her tractor beam of terror and turns back to the girl across from her, triumphant smirk firmly in place. Clarke can’t help but roll her eyes at Lexa’s obvious (and childish) glee over ‘winning’ such an immature display of power. However, she has to admit that this -- Lexa frightening bystanders with Clarke attempting to be disapproving -- this is more like them. It is because of this, and only this, that Clarke eventually returns her grin.

“So,” Lexa drawls, eyes still flashing with barely concealed mirth as she watches Clarke from across the table. Lexa already seems more like her usual self, tone and shoulders looser than they’ve been since she and Clarke hopped in a cab forty-five minutes prior. “If this isn’t us, then what is?”

Clarke lights up like a freaking Christmas tree at this question. This she can work with. She squeezes the dark haired girl’s hand in excitement. 

“I’ve got just the thing.” 

Another twenty minutes later finds the two girls giggling hysterically, ice cream cones in hand as they stroll along the nearby boardwalk. Clarke leans into Lexa’s side, laughing at the other girl’s horrendous impersonation of her ‘Con Law’ professor, Indra, and Lexa stutters to a halt mid-sentence at this coupled with the feel of Clarke’s fingers purposefully lacing with her own. They share a meaningful look, both still smiling, cheeks pink from their laughter. Before it can get too heavy (too stilted, like it had been earlier in that ridiculous restaurant) Clarke leans further into Lexa’s personal space and takes a massive bite out of the taller girl’s chocolate ice cream. 

If Lexa’s breath hitches somewhere along in here, she plays it off masterfully, covering her slip by shoving Clarke away far enough so that she is just out of range for ice-cream-stealing (but not hand-holding). “I’ve never understood why you don’t just order chocolate,” she mutters, tone dripping with contrived annoyance as she gives her recently assaulted dessert a once-over. 

“Because I don’t want chocolate, I want strawberry.” Clarke dismisses, emphasizing the statement with an obnoxious -- albeit admittedly borderline pornographic -- lick of her own cone. “Besides,” she continues with a smirk, all too aware (and pleased) with the effect her actions seem to have on the other girl, “If I got chocolate, then why would I need to steal tastes from yours?” 

Lexa catches Clarke’s teasing question a second later, her thoughts rejoining her from their detour through the gutter. She attempts a recovery with a scoff and pointed side eye, hoping her glazed expression has cleared. Clarke buys neither and instead shoots her a sugary sweet smile in response. They freeze, their own a Mexican stand off, party of two. 

Lexa regards her critically for a few moments before ultimately cracking like a damn egg and chuckling under her breath. She concedes, somewhat grudgingly, that Clarke has a “fair point.” After this, Lexa is the one to pull Clarke into her personal space with a quick tug on their connected hands, bringing their bodies close once more as they continue walking in the vague direction of their apartment. 

They amble on in contented silence, shoulders brushing occasionally, fingers still interlocked resolutely. Clarke basks in the restored sense of camaraderie (read: comfort) between the two of them for a moment longer, before turning to the girl beside her and asking her the question she has been dying to ask since they pulled up in front of the bougie restaurant earlier that evening. 

“So,” she starts, smile already threatening to spill from her lips. “Any particular reason you opted for our first official date to happen at a place you knew we would both hate?”

Instead of responding in her typical snort of derision, quick retort at the ready, like Clarke expected, Lexa bites her bottom lip and looks away from Clarke’s questioning glance, focusing instead on a passing trashcan where she tosses the rest of her ice cream cone into it. Clarke follows suit, and in the dim glow of the street lights, she can just barely see a blush forming on Lexa cheeks. Lexa clears her throat, and addresses the cobblestones beneath their feet. “I-- Uh. I wanted to impress you. Win you over, maybe? I don’t know.” Her ears are definitely red now.

Clarke takes a moment to process the other girl’s words before she tips her head back and lets loose a quick, loud laugh that goes bouncing off the nearby buildings. Lexa pulls to a halt, confusion clear in her green gaze. “Lexa,” Clarke reassures her, newly vacated hand already reaching for Lexa’s own sticky one as she comes to stand in front of her, blue eyes shining, chest filling to the brim with affection and happiness. She can’t help but chuckle as she makes her second confession of the night: “Lexa, you won me over three and a half years ago, when you saw me, a total stranger, might I remind you, hold open the door for some douchebag at freshman orientation and then proceeded to loudly tell him ‘you’re welcome’ when he walked off without saying thank you.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘Oh,’” Clarke giggles at Lexa’s adorable look of confusion. “Now come on. Walk me home.” 

They fell back into step, Lexa still seeming to be lost in thought until: “So. Does this mean I get a goodnight kiss?”

And again a laugh comes bubbling up from the warmth within Clarke’s chest at Lexa’s seemingly serious tone. She squeezes Lexa’s hand in her own, her other hand coming up to wrap around Lexa’s upper arm. Clarke rests her head on Lexa’s shoulder and snuggles into the familiarity of ‘them.’ 

“Meh. We’ll see.”

She totally does.

**Author's Note:**

> [insert standard stoked-ness over having finished and posted my first fanfic] [woot]


End file.
